Simulacrum
by Iron3
Summary: In the aftermath of Raoul Silva's mission of vengeance, a newly refocused MI6 stumbles upon a former executive of the criminal organization known as Quantum. Bond is dispatched to bring the man in, but in the process, Quantum's deeper, more sinister connections are revealed. The story is intended to take place prior to the events of Spectre.
1. Chapter 1

Simulacrum

1

Commander James Bond of Her Majesty's Secret Service, reclined uncomfortably into the back of his armchair. Slouched as he was, his blue eyes peered over the crests of his knees, and focused upon the porcelain figurine sitting on the coffee table. The smashed face of the English Bulldog, draped in the folds of the Union Jack, met his gaze without emotion. In the relative quiet of his flat, the figurine spoke not at all to Bond. It's inky, infinite eyes conveyed no message, and offered no insight.

Sighing through his nose, Bond scowled, and sat himself up higher into his seat. The damned figurine remained just as ugly as it had been on _her_ desk corner, and even the newly-bestowed gift of sentiment could not sway Bond's opinion on the matter. Yet, in spite of its aesthetics, Bond knew that it would stay with him until the end of his days. She deserved at least that small measure of remembrance.

With only a scant fortnight having passed since the title of 'M' had been bestowed to Gareth Mallory, Bond had found himself feeling equal parts detached and resentful. In quiet moments such as the one in which he occupied now, the latter, however, won the day. He did not miss her per se, but there was a palpable vacuum that had formed in her wake that Mallory had not yet filled. The blame for that void could hardly be placed on Mallory, and Bond knew this. Yet all the same, vengeance and justice still called to Bond for their due, and Raoul Silva's death had not been enough to fill the vacuum either.

Bond sat up fully, and leaned forward to rest his elbows upon knees. His gaze fell away from the figurine, and came to rest naturally upon the face of his Omega Mark II wristwatch. It was 8 PM on a Saturday. Outside the windows of his flat, London was alive with the vigor borne of late spring, complimented by an unseasonably warm and clear evening. It was the kind of night that was too fresh and inviting to remain indoors, no matter the roil of one's personal demons. Bond had already planned to venture forth, and had dressed accordingly. It had been the act of sitting to lace his shoes that had afforded the eyes of the figurine a moment to catch him, and subsequently send him off on another mental crusade.

Freed of his tiny captor, Bond left his flat down the stairs of his building, and exited into the humid, welcoming night air. He wore a short-sleeved knit shirt, and a pair of comfortable slacks that were light enough to call for a walk in lieu of a taxi ride. Though Bond had intentioned to venture out, he had not yet decided where to wile his time. Even with his wish to walk to his destination, Bond had no intention of making that walk a prolonged affair. With that in mind, Bond's decision came quite naturally, and his feet began leading the way south towards St. James Street, and ultimately Dukes Bar.

With its proximity to his home, and the affectation of being a classic, almost speakeasy-like cocktail bar, Bond was as close to being a regular at Dukes Bar as any man with his travel demands could expect to be. It was a quiet place, with skilled bartenders, and an air of quality and finery that remained unpretentious. The other fare Dukes had to offer, that which stood upon towering heels and marked with predatory rouge, was not to be besmirched either.

Bond made his way down the sidewalk, and forced his mind onto only that which was before him. He desired to have his senses take in what the world had to offer, and immediately discard it before a story could be attached to any one thing. The people he passed, the building facades, the cars upon the streets—all these met his eyes, and were immediately cast-off, becoming supplanted by the next spectacle of civilization. It was an exercise that required effort, much like any form of meditation, but it was one that Bond found refreshing. It was a means of personal detachment that was a worthy replacement until chilled vermouth or vodka could tag in to take its place.

Two blocks were about to turn into three, with Dukes Bar just beyond the next intersection, when Bond's attention was forced to that of a black Jaguar sedan pulling beside him at the curb. Looking sidelong to the car, Bond watched as the passenger window rolled down, revealing the driver. At the sight of her, Bond came to a stop, and lifted an eyebrow without an accompanying word.

Dark eyes surrounded by shapely chocolate features, and a handsome mess of ebony curls, met Bond's gaze.

"Enjoying your evening, James?"

Bond let the corner of his mouth rise in a smile. "Only just, Moneypenny."

"Well," Eve Moneypenny replied with a smirk, "it'll be getting more exciting for you in short order. Get in."

"Moneypenny, desperate, demanding overtures don't suit you."

"Who said it was _me_ who wanted to fetch you in the first place, James? My overtures come from above, so get in the bloody car."

Bond merely smiled, chuckled lightly, and settled into the passenger seat.

The drive to Vauxhall took almost as long as it did during the morning rush, such was the traffic. Once inside the car, Moneypenny had explained that M had called and requested for her to pick Bond up, citing that she was nearby, and that the both of them needed to get to MI6. Bond didn't need to ask how M had known where either he or Moneypenny had been in relation to one another—the answer was currently inside his pocket, set to vibrate.

Bond also didn't need to ask what was important enough for M to be calling them in on a Saturday night. Moneypenny was a professional, and she had already given him all the information that she had, which amounted to nothing at all beyond the fact that they had been summoned to MI6 headquarters on M's behest.

As Moneypenny turned onto Millbank, Bond looked across the Thames to the skyline beyond. The silhouette of the Secret Intelligence Service building stood in dark contrast against its warmly lit neighbors. Without its distinct floodlights on to illuminate its exterior, the once handsome center of British Intelligence sat like a wounded veteran amidst a crowd of happy faces. Bond's jaw tightened for the thousandth time at the sight. Silva's act of terror had scarred the building, and reconstruction had only just begun. It would take months to repair the damage the crazed ex-SIS agent had inflicted.

However, out of the ashes of that explosion, a purpose and resolve had been forged. A resolve that had been keenly and skillfully focused by M into an almost living phenomenon that could be felt throughout the entire cadre of MI6. While Bond hardly considered the newfound purpose a fair trade for all those that had lost their lives in Silva's campaign of vengeance, he took solace in knowing that the SIS had come out on the other side stronger than it ever had before during his long tenure. The time was ripe for MI6 to assert its strength—a target was all that was required.

Following a thorough inspection by the security personnel, Moneypenny pulled through the gates, and into the secured parking garage beneath MI6 headquarters. After parking the Jaguar, Bond fell into step beside his companion as they entered one of the many secured elevators leading inside. Leaning against the rear wall of the elevator car, Bond found himself silently and discreetly appraising the woman who had almost killed him months before.

She was tall, lithe, and athletic, dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans, red pumps, and a simple black sleeveless top. From his vantage slightly behind her, Bond could see her physique had not softened since her time in the field. He repressed a mischievous smile at the memory of Moneypenny kneeling before him, dragging the straight razor across his jaw to shave him, her lips mere inches from his own. Macau had been a memorable adventure to say the least, and the one that had first truly shown Bond the more amorous side to the Miss Eve Moneypenny. Nothing more intimate than overt flirting and innuendo had occurred that night, but nevertheless, Bond had a distinct feeling that such would be their habit for the entire duration of their acquaintance. Thus far, Moneypenny had done little to disprove his theory.

As if reading the course of his thoughts, Moneypenny glanced back over her shoulder, and seemed to give Bond a knowing smile. Bond said nothing as the doors of the elevator opened, and the pair entered the hallway that led to M's office. MI6 was still alive, even at this hour, and though the corridors were not as crowded, many offices still held sounds of technicians and agents working away at their computers. The war to be on the upper hand of knowledge knew no respite.

Moneypenny made her way ahead of Bond, and keyed in the secure code to the office anteroom before swiping her keycard. The heavy, yet handsome looking door, opened with a metallic click of maglocks. Following her inside, Moneypenny took her seat behind her desk, and activated the intercom.

"I have Mr. Bond here for you, sir."

"Send him in," came the immediate reply.

Moneypenny smiled up at Bond. "Good luck, James."

Bond grinned on his way to the leather-clad gateway to M's sanctum. "I don't need luck, Moneypenny. That's what you're for."

As he turned away from a smiling Moneypenny, and through the threshold into M's office, Bond was met with low lights, and the glow of the large HD screen that hung beside M's desk. The screen itself depicted only the lion and unicorn crest of the Secret Intelligence Service, but Bond knew it would not remain there for long.

"Good evening, 007. Took you long enough," said M from behind steepled fingertips.

"Traffic, sir. My apologies."

M let out a quiet "harrumph" of understanding before taking a small remote control from his desktop. Clicking it, the screen beside him transitioned smoothly to a large headshot image of a middle-aged white man looking out to Bond from behind calculating green eyes. Recognition bubbled within Bond's mind as he took a seat before M's desk, but a name failed to appear along with it.

"You remember Guy Haines, of course?" M said. "Your friend from the clandestine meeting of Quantum executives in Bregenz almost two years ago?"

"Ah yes, the former special adviser to the PM," Bond said, crossing a leg across his knee. "Special Branch lost him following the slight _misunderstanding_ that occurred at the opera."

Bond looked to M as he spoke, searching at the stern man's features for any hint at his thoughts. When Bond had found himself at the opera house in Bergenz trying to flush out the plot of the terrorist organization known as Quantum, Guy Haines was identified as being a traitor. Following Haines' true affiliation being revealed, Bond ended up chasing Haines' bodyguard, a man that Bond assumed was a Quantum operative. Ultimately Bond caught the man, and subsequently threw him from the roof of the opera house. What Bond didn't know was that the bodyguard was actually an agent from Special Branch assigned to protect Haines. In the immediate aftermath of the misunderstanding, Bond was classified as a rogue, and had to fight his way back into the good graces of MI6's leadership.

If M possessed any lingering opinion on the matter, he gave no sign. "Indeed, that's your man. Haines has been at large since that night, and some in the community even speculated that he had been killed by Quantum as a security measure."

M clicked the remote once more, and the headshot of Haines was replaced with a lower quality photo of a man in a woven grass fedora, and garbed in tropical attire. Even with sunglasses over his eyes, and the lack of sharpness from the telephoto lens, Bond recognized Haines without difficulty.

"This was taken twelve hours ago in Guadalupe," M continued. "One of our operatives that had been waiting to monitor an exchange of Quantum-connected French arms smugglers happened to identify Haines at the meeting, and passed the intel up the chain."

Bond looked to the picture upon the screen, and took in M's words. Haines had survived his unmasking as a traitor within the British government, and at first blush appeared to still be working for Quantum. M beat Bond to his next question.

"We don't yet know at what level Haines is still involved with Quantum, but the man was an executive within the organization, and a class-A infiltrator to boot. Even if he's nothing more than a bag-man now, the past intelligence he still possesses would be invaluable to unearthing the rest of Quantum. Our asset in Guadalupe has kept tabs on Haines' whereabouts, and thus far he shows no sign of departing the island."

Bond nodded and stood. "When do I leave, sir?"

M looked up to Bond, the barest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Two hours. And 007, I suggest you keep Mr. Haines well clear of any rooftops. Another misunderstanding would not do."


	2. Chapter 2

2

Bond sat in one of the luxurious flight couches inside of the Gulfstream G650ER, and looked down from his window to the crystalline-turquoise waters surrounding the French island territory of Guadeloupe. The business jet was in the midst of its final descent into Pointe-à-Pitre International Airport, and the morning sun glistened with a luster that seemed deceptively optimistic to Bond's eyes. It wasn't that he felt trepidation towards his mission, merely silent acknowledgement that his foe was not an entity to be underestimated. Quantum and its agents had eluded MI6, and Bond in particular, on more than one occasion. The stakes were getting higher now, almost personal even.

Having departed Heathrow under the guise of a point-man for the faux import/export company, Universal Exports, Bond had been afforded plenty of time to ruminate privately on Quantum, and specifically Guy Haines. The Gulfstream ostensibly belonged to Universal Exports, and MI6 had spared no expense in solidifying the cover—from the lavish business class amenities, all the way to the flight attendant with the matching executive figure. With a few hours of sleep, a gourmet breakfast, and a secure link to MI6's intelligence cache, Bond had everything he needed to get up to speed during the non-stop flight.

Or, as up to speed as one could hope when dealing with Quantum. The criminal organization had adapted remarkably following the outing of some of its most influential executives, managing to morph into an even more shadowy player than it had before. The briefings provided by many of the EU nations, along with intelligence from the United States, painted a picture of a sleeker, less diversified Quantum. The organization, it seemed, was focused on fewer avenues of clandestine influence, and instead on enterprises that were more the hallmark of a 'run-of-the-mill' criminal organization—arms trafficking, smuggling, extortion, and money laundering. These enterprises were organized and run by independent cells, almost like criminal franchises, that worked with little direction from whatever Quantum leadership still remained.

These cells were difficult to find and eliminate by the world's intelligence and law-enforcement entities, and linking them to Quantum in any meaningful way was proving nigh impossible. Quantum was a hydra, and the heads that had grown back to replace the ones that had been cut were proving more cautious and more cunning than their predecessors. It was apparent to Bond that it wasn't the heads that needed to be cut off—Quantum's heart needed to be bled dry. With any luck, it would be Guy Haines that would finally provide MI6 with the place to stab.

Bond maintained his view out the window as the Universal Exports Gulfstream landed, and taxied to the private terminal. The brunette in the pencil skirt that had tended to his needs during the flight, opened the outer doors, and lowered the onboard stairs to the tarmac. She smiled to Bond as the flight crew descended, tasked with heading off the cursory inspection by the French customs officials. There was nothing illegal onboard the aircraft for even the most thorough of inspectors to find anyway. Bond traveled unarmed, and with only an overnight bag that contained his few changes of clothes, toiletries, and a Q-Branch modified iPad able to secretly link up with the MI6 secure network. His contact in Guadeloupe was to provide him with any further equipment, should the mission dictate it.

Stepping out of the Gulfstream, Bond was met with the humid Caribbean morning air, and he could immediately feel himself starting to sweat beneath the fabric of his light blue Poplin shirt and linen sport coat. Placing a pair of Ray-Ban Clubmaster sunglasses over his eyes, and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Bond made his way inside to the customs counter. As he was entering Guadeloupe via the private terminal of the international airport, the work of the official working the desk was efficient and professional. The Frenchman in his pressed uniform gave Bond's falsified passport a thorough, but swift glance, before stamping it and waving him through. The lack of hassle was a point Bond appreciated, especially as a spy, but it was also easy to see how criminals moved through the world with such relative ease—money talked, even when it didn't have to get anyone's palm greasy.

Walking out of the terminal, and to the edge of the airport's passenger loading area, Bond leaned himself against a post, and began to evaluate his surroundings from behind the cover of his sunglasses. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching silently and diligently for any signs of danger or surveillance. The airport was busy, but not overly crowded. He saw mostly French tourists either having just arrived, or sunburned and sweating as they maneuvered through the various air-carrier counters for their tickets home. It was a scene typical of any island tourist trap, and of the danger he sought to identify, Bond found none.

He could not be completely certain he was not being surveilled however, but such was the nature of the game Bond played. Operational security had never been an exact science, it was an art form. Bond knew this art well, but it would be a folly for him to believe he had grown so proficient at it that he couldn't be bested. The consequences of overconfidence were harsh and often swift, and good spies were aware of this. So, as was his ritual, Bond settled into the mindset of his cover identity, and worked to keep his attentions to the here and now.

The minutes passed with Bond maintaining his spot in the shade, leaning against the column, and crowd-watching. Cars and taxis came and went around the circle drive, and the noonday sun was turning the already hot morning into an even more sweltering and stagnate afternoon. Without attaching the growing annoyance he was feeling to his features, Bond checked his watch. His contact was almost an hour late. The brief he had read on his flight over stated that he was expected, and that the agent that had first identified Haines was to pick him up from the airport minutes after he landed in country. No information was given on the appearance or identity of the agent, other than the fact that she was female, and that she would identify herself with a predetermined phrase exchange when she made contact with Bond.

An hour from the time of his arrival came and went, and Bond made the firm decision that something was wrong. He had memorized all the relevant information for meeting up with the agent, and he had run through the timeline countless times in his head. No mistakes had been made, at least on his end. Resolved that he would be operating on his own for now, Bond stood, intending to hail a taxi for a ride to the hotel Club Med La Caravelle, which had been flagged as his secondary location should his primary contact fail. As he gave the airport one final scan for threats, Bond froze.

His eyes affixed upon a tall woman with auburn hair that was waving and smiling to him from down the concourse. She was almost forty meters away, but Bond could clearly make her out. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, and her shoulder length auburn hair was covered by a linen fedora that gave her appearance a carefree affectation as she strode towards him. She stood tall, despite the flat thong sandals around her feet. Long legs were covered from calf to hip by paisley patterned capris that were loose and billowy, and over her feminine torso was draped a salmon colored tank top that accentuated the tan skin of her shoulders, neck and arms. It was impossible to not take note of her beauty, and Bond registered this, while at the same time knowing for certain that he had never seen this woman before in his life.

Turning to face her, Bond pinned a smile to his face before glancing about. If the woman was some sort of distraction to provide an opening for another threat to swoop in, Bond could identify none in the immediate vicinity, and so lacking another course of action, he decided to play along, and act as if he recognized the striking woman. When she came within mere feet of Bond, she opened her arms wide, and smiled with a convincing sigh of relieved adoration.

"Ah, ma très chère," she said as she enveloped Bond's neck in a hug.

Bond drank in the sensation of warm skin, and the scent of sun lotion and lavender. His own arm, the one that wasn't holding his bag, wrapped naturally to the small of her back, allowing him to pull her close. The distinctive press of a concealed pistol beneath the waist of her pants became immediately apparent, but the woman didn't shy away from his discovery. Her hug was strong, and she nestled her nose to the crux of his ear and jaw. As she did so, he felt the faint wisp of her breath as she dropped her voice to a low whisper.

"There is no time to explain here, 007," she said. Her English was easily understood, but layered heavily with a French accent. "The operation has met with complications, and we must go."

She relinquished her grip on Bond's neck, and with a smile still radiating on her face, she dropped a hand down to take his own. Turning towards the short-term parking lot just beyond the drive, the woman pulled Bond along behind her. He didn't resist, and he made his movements natural and pleasant, though in reality his senses were alight, and his mind reeling to come to the reality of this development. It was apparent the woman knew exactly who he was. How she knew this was a mystery, as MI6 protocol would have generally kept the parties anonymous until security assurances were made.

There was little other option for Bond, however. The briefing he was operating under had gone out the window the moment his assumed contact had broken procedure, and had started leading him by the hand. For now, he would continue with the charade.

"Darling," Bond said as he lengthened his stride to walk beside the woman, his eyes still looking about the parking lot. "Is everything in order at the hotel?"

The woman shook her head in feigned exasperation, and her free hand accentuated the motion. "Au contraire. Our suite was double-booked with another party. But, I have managed new accommodations for us. The details are in the car."

Though he wasn't certain, Bond took the woman's meaning to be that another entity had interjected its interest in Guy Haines. If that was true, the situation had just grown exponentially more complicated. The lack of the reassuring weight from his Walther pistol seemed all the more palpable at times like this. With his jaw clenching, Bond kept silent as the woman stopped at a blue Renault sedan, and beckoned for him to get in as she opened the driver's door for herself. Taking in a final survey of the airport, Bond tossed his bag in the back, and slid into the passenger seat.

The Renault's engine came to life, and the woman had car backing out of the parking stall before Bond could pull on his seatbelt.

"My name is Abeille," the woman said as she maneuvered the car. She did not look to Bond, instead focusing her attention on her driving. "When we were to make contact at the airport I was to come up to you and say, 'Mr. Longmire, I presume?,' You were to say, 'Yes, I was sent by the home office for an urgent meeting with Monsieur Dreyfus.' At which time I would have replied, 'Very good, Mr. Longmire. Everything has been arranged, though Monsieur Dreyfus is running behind.' We're currently heading to my safe house."

At this, the woman named Abeille glanced over to Bond. "Satisfied?"

Bond took off his sunglasses and eyed her. She had indeed completed the security phrase word for word, but while this helped solidify her identity as Bond's contact, it did little to assuage the knot of cautious anxiety at the top of his stomach.

"Hardly," he replied. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

Abeille nodded, empathetic of what she knew he must be feeling. "Firstly," she said with her honeyed French accent, "beneath your seat is an MP7, and three magazines."

"Marvelous," interjected Bond humorously. Having a machine pistol between his legs did not bode well for what was to follow.

Abeille smirked. She turned the car out of the airport grounds, and onto a main thoroughfare that would take them towards the eastern side of the island. "I have been in the French Antilles for almost a year now, heading up an investigation into a group of arms smugglers that we believe are connected with Quantum. These smugglers were to have a meeting with an affiliate from Martinique about forty-eight hours ago at a resort here in Guadeloupe, and I was set up to surveil that meeting."

"The players arrived as scheduled," Abeille continued, "but there was another with them. As I was well-read on Quantum's brief, I recognized him as Guy Haines immediately. Though, I'll admit, I could hardly believe my eyes at first. The man was a ghost, or at least we all thought."

Bond's eyes narrowed. "So where does our little wrinkle come in to this story?"

"Well," Abeille said as she glanced up to check the rearview mirror, "As the meeting got under way, I managed to identify another agent monitoring the smugglers. Here." Without looking to Bond, she tossed him an iPhone. "Check the photo gallery, the pictures are of him."

Taking the phone, Bond made his way through the screens to the gallery. A series of images, obviously taken from the same vantage as that of the one depicting Guy Haines, were saved there. Each of these images however were of a fit-looking balding man reading a magazine. The man didn't possess any remarkable features, and he appeared to Bond like any of the other French tourists at the resort at which he sat.

"How did you identify him?" Bond asked.

"I doubt I would have, if I hadn't set up my surveillance so far in advance of the meeting," replied Abeille as she took an exit off the highway. "I was in my hide almost two hours before the appointed meeting time, and that man arrived not long after I had my camera in place. He sat at that same table, sipping at a glass of water, and doing nothing in particular. The fact that he was there during the entire duration of the meeting, however, made his presence far from ordinary. No tourist sits in one spot like that for so long without doing _something_."

"I've already sent his photo through the ECHELON and AURORA networks," Abeille said, referring to the computer programs used by the NATO nations for facial recognition and identification. "So far, nothing has come up on the man, and I have no idea as to who he is working for."

Bond nodded sagely. The fact that the man in the photos did not exist, at least as far as the most advanced identification network in the world was concerned, was confirmation in itself that the man was an agent of some kind.

"You identified this man as another actor, but you did it without breaking your cover, yes?" Bond said, his eyebrows arching slightly as he pointed at the seat cushion beneath his thighs. "So, make I ask what the artillery is for?"

Abeille shrugged, her face moving into an attractive expression of sheepishness. It made Bond want to smile in spite of himself.

"I don't have double-zeros in any part of my title, 007. This is a new game for me, and I'm doing the best I know how to do. I've worked too hard on this assignment to ruin it now."

Bond allowed himself the smile he had held back. It was a genuine smile, free of pretense or judgment. Abeille was indeed a novice in the world of cloak and dagger. Her breach of protocol at the airport spoke to this, but Bond could see she was an intelligent and driven agent. It was often better to overreact in an operational situation such as this, as the alternative could be a mortal mistake. The mission had not changed, at least as far as Bond could surmise. There were more pieces on the board, and that had to be taken into account, but at the core of it all the king still merely needed to be brought to checkmate.

"Call me Bond." He said as Abeille came to a stop at a traffic light amidst a small business district. "James Bond."

Abeille looked to him, a light smile lifting the elegant corners of her mouth. Bond noticed absently that a grey panel-van had pulled up and stopped next to them at the traffic light.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond."

The light flicked to green, and Abeille turned her head forward to look up the street. As she did, Bond saw the sliding door of the panel van fling open, and from within the dark confines of its interior came the fiery belch of automatic weapons fire.


End file.
